1Cademy - بخش ۴۲ - در صفت بربط / Section 42

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Khosrow Nameh

Poem

بخش ۴۲ - در صفت بربط / Section 42 - In Description of the Barbat

Original content

بتی خوشبوی همچون مشک بویا
زبان در بستهیی را کرده گویا

شکسته بستهیی دو دست بر سر
بیکسو فربه و یک سوی لاغر

رگش از نیش، آوازی نکوداشت
برگ در استخوان گیسوی او داشت

چو از زخمه رگش زاری گرفتی
چو زخمه دل نگونساری گرفتی

بشادی دایهیی در بر کشیدش
ولی چون راه زد، پی برکشیدش

خروشان گشت طفل رنج دیده
که بخروشد بسی پی برکشیده

همی بر پهلویش زد دایه ناگاه
که او پهلوتهی میکرد از راه

نبودی در رگش خون از نزاری
ولیکن جوی خون راندی بزاری

بهر دم دایه زخمش بیش میزد
بزخمه در رگ او نیش میزد

بمالش برد از گوشش گرانی
رگی در گوش داشت از مهربانی

اگر یک ناله بودی بیحسابش
فتادی هم ازان پرده حجابش

حسابی ناگزیر راه بودش
ادب از دایهٔ دلخواه بودش

بنوک خار، لب میدوخت او را
حساب انگشت میآموخت او را

اگرچه بر طریق خویش میبود
اسیر گوشمال و نیش میبود

ز درد زخم نیش آن طفل مضطر
ببسته بود ساعد را سراسر

چو شاه از جشن کردن بازپرداخت
بعشرت با گل دمساز پرداخت

گل و خسرو بهم چون مهر با ماه
بشادی باده نوشیدند شش ماه

جوانی بود و عشق و کامرانی
چه خوشتر باشد از عشق و جوانی

بهم بودند دلخوش روزگاری
ولیکن در میان نارفته کاری

در آن بودند تا خسرو بصد ناز
بخواهد از پدر گل را باعزاز

کنون بنگر کزین دهر پریشان
کجا خواهد رسیدن حال ایشان

تو حاضر باش تا من رازگویم
چو شکر قصه گل بازگویم

زهی عطار کز فضل الهی
بحمدلله تو داری پادشاهی

تویی اعجوبهٔ دوران سخن را
تو دادی از معانی جان سخن را

زهی صنعتگری احسنت احسنت
زهی در پروری احسنت احسنت

شکن بین در سر زلف سخنها
زهی شیرین سخنها و شکنها

چو دستم داد بسیاری صنیعت
بفریاد آمد از دستم طبیعت

منم امروز در ملک سخن شاه
بهرمویی نموده در سخن راه

عروض آموز کژ طبعان صریرم
ترازوی سخن سنجان ضمیرم

ضمیرم در جنان زیبا زند جوش
که حوران مینهندش دربناگوش

ضمیر من خلیل آسا از آنست
که هم ز انگشت، خود شیرم روانست

معانی ضمیرم را عدد نیست
مرا این بس که از خلقم مدد نیست

نه غایت می درآید در معانی
نه نقصان میپذیرد این روانی

مراحق داد در معنی هدایت
ازین معنیست، معنی بی نهایت

English translation

A sweet-smelling idol, fragrant like musk, Making a closed-tongued one speak. Broken and bent, with two hands on its head, Fat on one side and slender on the other. Its vein had a beautiful sound from the prick, It had leaves in the bone of its hair. When its vein wailed because of the plectrum, It would turn the heart upside down. In joy, a nurse held it in her embrace, But when she played a tune, she pulled back. The suffering child began to cry out, To wail greatly as she pulled back. Suddenly the nurse struck its side, Because it was deviating from the path. There was no blood in its veins due to thinness, Yet it ran a river of blood in its weeping. At every moment, the nurse struck more wounds, Pricking its vein with the plectrum. By rubbing, she removed the heaviness from its ear, It had a vein in its ear from kindness. If there was even one out-of-measure cry, It would fall behind the veil of its key. A measure was inevitable on its path, It received discipline from the beloved nurse. With the tip of a thorn, she sewed its lips, She taught it the counting of fingers. Although it kept to its own way, It remained captive to ear-twisting and pricks. From the pain of the prick of that helpless child, Its forearm was bound all over. When the king finished celebrating the feast, He turned to pleasure with Gol, his companion. Gol and Khosrow, like the sun and the moon, Happily drank wine together for six months. It was youth, love, and fulfillment; What could be sweeter than love and youth? They were happy together for some time, Yet no consummate action had occurred between them. They were planning for Khosrow, with a hundred graces, To ask his father for Gol with honor. Now see, from this chaotic world, Where their situation will lead. Be present, so that I may tell you the secret, And tell the story of Gol like sweet sugar. Hail to Attar, who by divine grace, Thanks be to God, holds sovereignty! You are the wonder of the age in speech; You gave life to speech through meaning. What a craftsman, bravo, bravo! What a pearl-cultivator, bravo, bravo! See the curls in the tresses of the words, What sweet words and beautiful curls! When many crafts were achieved by my hand, My nature cried out from my hand. Today, I am the king in the kingdom of speech, Showing a path in speech through every single hair. I am the teacher of prosody to those of crooked nature with my scratching pen, My mind is the scale for those who weigh words. My mind boils beautifully in Paradise, Such that the houris place it behind their ears. My mind is Abraham-like in that, Milk flows from my very finger. The meanings of my mind are countless; This is enough for me that I have no help from people. No limit enters into my meanings, Nor does this flowingness suffer any decrease. God gave me guidance in meaning; From this meaning, meaning is infinite.

Updated 2026-07-03

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